


What I've Done's Not Enough To Hope You Out of Here

by 8ethespider8itch



Category: Dark Is Rising Sequence - Susan Cooper
Genre: M/M, handsome ghost, is this even a songfic?, it adds something, just listen to the song while you read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:40:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23162626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8ethespider8itch/pseuds/8ethespider8itch
Summary: The summer after his eighteenth birthday, Will returns again to Wales. Dozens of letters and a few meetings between him and Bran had bridged the years, but still there was something missing. A hole gaped where the Pendragon had once been. Still, he enjoys Bran's company infinitely more than most. Reuniting is refreshing, like a dip in cool water on a hot summer day.
Relationships: Bran Davies/Will Stanton
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

_**Blood Stutter // Handsome** _ **_Ghost_ **

The summer after his eighteenth birthday, Will returns again to Wales. Dozens of letters and a few meetings between him and Bran had bridged the years, but still there was something missing. A hole gaped where the Pendragon had once been. Still, he enjoys Bran's company infinitely more than most. Reuniting is refreshing, like a dip in cool water on a hot summer day. 

It begins when Will disembarks the train. It’s a sticky summer day, and his shirt clings to his back uncomfortably. He scans the crowd, seeking his Uncle David or Rhys, his cousin. Chuckling, he thinks back to a trip years previous. 

“You have a nice dreamer for an uncle. David Evans will be late when the Last Trump sounds,” the man at the station had told him as he waited anxiously to be picked up, an eleven year old convalescent with a bag full of things and a hazy mind. Now, clear of mind and healthy of body, Will waits in the same place, for the same dreamer of an uncle. As the crowd clears he spots a familiar face, but not the one he was expecting. This face is pale, covered with dark sunglasses, framed by a shock of paper-white hair. 

“Bran!” Will calls. “Bran Davies!” he waves a hand as the figure leaning against the wall turns toward him. Bran’s cool face splits into a grin in recognition. “I wasn’t expecting you, I was waiting for Rhys or Uncle David,” Will says, grasping Bran’s hand in a shake.

“Will, bachgen, how are you? Let me grab your bag.” Bran reaches for Will’s case. “Your uncle can’t be expected to pick up groceries, let alone you. And Rhys is far too busy. Your auntie sent me along.”

“Too right, I was just thinking of last time. And I’m quite well, thanks,” Will answers. “Perfectly able to carry my own baggage, certainly.”

Bran laughs. “Sorry. I got so used to you being sickly, when you were with us last.”

Will cringes, recoiling from an injury Bran does not know he is disturbing. It hurts that Bran cannot remember the significance of that visit, or the visit which followed. More so even than when he visited the Drew boys, or even read a cheery letter from Jane, it stings Will that Bran lost his heritage, the part of him that was the Pendragon, son of Arthur. But the twinge is momentary, and Will responds, “I’ve been back since! I saw you with the Drews, the last time I was here. And you’ve been to see me since as well! Don’t act as if you only know me as a convalescent recovering from hepatitis.” He shoves Bran playfully with his shoulder. Following Bran to a muddy pickup truck, he clambers into the passenger side with some difficulty. Bran has grown much taller, he notes, taller not only than somewhat stocky Will, but taller than most of the men they’d passed in the station. He has no trouble getting up into the truck, which roars throatily to life after a few tries and some muffled Welsh swearing, and trundles along toward Clwyd. As they bump down the road, the two catch up on each other’s lives. Will talks about his brothers and sisters, and Bran about his father and the Evanses and John Rowlands. They discuss plans for uni and find that they would be rather near one another. When they reached Clwyd, Bran again carries Will’s bag, ignoring indignant protests. 

“I’ve carried it all this far, let me finish out the journey,” he tells him, which Will can’t help but think is the dumbest thing he has ever heard. He would tell Bran this, but after greeting Aunt Jen and Uncle David, Bran is gone, without so much as a wave goodbye to Will.

**_Down southern, pulled under_ **

**_Crossed fingers, eyes wander_ **

After weeks on his uncle's farm, working much more efficiently than on his previous visit, Will feels as though he never left. He spends his free time laying in the grass with Pen or driving to tourist attractions with Bran, listening to him preach about the damn tourists and whatnot. On hot days they swim, when there are no sheep to tend or chores to do. The lake water is intensely cold and unnaturally clear. Bran is a fearless swimmer, jumping from heights into the water and leaving the shore so far behind him that he loses sight of land. Will is more cautious, though not out of fear so much as wisdom and sub-par swimming. At one point, as Will contemplates taking a dive from an outcropping above, Bran drags him underwater by the ankle. Visions of the Afanc blaze through his mind, and he bursts back to the surface, sputtering madly. As soon as hears Bran’s laughter, a loud, infectious sound, he is relieved, though only momentarily. This of course begins a battle of splashing and dunking like children. 

Evenings Will watches fireflies dance across the valley and enjoys the sunset against the mountains. The Old One in him feels deeply at peace here. The oldest hills welcome the oldest being, youngest and last of the old ones, into their fold. His humanity, on the other hand, is on edge. When he works on the farm, his mind dancing elsewhere, eyes and thoughts almost always settling on Bran. He finds himself smiling too much, laughing at Bran’s terrible jokes and cranky moods. Solitude had swallowed Will since the Rising had been quashed, and his friends’ memories were taken. Now it is so wonderful to be so near to Bran. But when he looks at his friend, there is an odd emptiness, a hollow ache that makes him want to stand closer.

One glorious sunny afternoon, Bran drags Will on a hike up into the mountains. Aunt Jen sends them a picnic. Though Will protests heavily, Bran carries the food in his rucksack. 

“You’re out of shape, English. Maybe I’ll let you hold your own once you’re strong enough to do it.” He bites into a crisp green apple from his pack, and Will involuntarily flashes back to apples and hazelnuts for another journey. 

Will shakes his head, clearing the image from his mind. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying some sandwiches!” he says indignantly. 

Bran simply shrugs and keeps walking.

As the sun beats down on their backs, Bran’s skin burns a brilliant red. Still, they hike, exploring caves and outcroppings alike. 

“Remember when we used to do this all the time, boyo?” Bran pants, clapping Will on the shoulder. “Thought we were invincible, didn’t we?”

Will smiles painedly. “Running into fires and dashing over mountains, yeah. Invincible.”

“Not anymore though,” Bran laughs. “Want to stop and eat?” Without waiting for a response, he sets down on a rock and opens his pack. “Got raisins, granola, sandwiches- ach-y-fi! What the hell is in this?” he holds a sandwich wrapped in saran delicately between two fingers.

“Liver,” Will says primly, snatching the sandwich from Bran and unwrapping it.

“Disgusting, that is,” Bran mutters, unwrapping his own ham and cheese and popping a Tupperware full of pickles. 

“And that isn’t?” Will asks incredulously, nodding at the pickles.

“Really? You want to say a vegetable is disgusting when you’re eating the blood filter of an animal. You’re bloody mad, bachgen. Honestly.”

Will hums to himself and takes a huge bite of his liverwurst. “It’s the Welsh constitution,” he says through a mouthful of meat, “weak and sickly.”

“Oh get out of here!” Bran laughs, shoving Will so he slips off the boulder he had perched on. “Weak my arse! Came here to convalesce, you did.”

“So I did,” Will answers goodnaturedly, brushing himself off and reclaiming his perch. “Seven years ago, mind you. You’d think I’d be healed enough by now.”

“English,” Bran says solemnly. “Never truly healed. It’s obvious. If you’d gotten healthy you wouldn’t be eating that damn liver.” 

Will does not dignify this with a response, instead choosing to snag the granola before it’s gone. 

The hike wears on, the sun moving almost impossibly quickly across the sky. Only at twilight do the pair turn around, remembering how long the walk back is. As the sun sinks behind the trees, the stars slowly emerge. The two walk in near silence, enjoying quiet company and the sounds of nature all around them. Crows cawing, sheep bleating, the occasional peregrine. A huge gleaming star shoots across the sky, and Bran grabs Will’s arm, pointing in wordless awe. Crossing his fingers, Will made a wish on a star as it shot across the sky. A wordless wish, to fill the strange ache in his chest with something less painful. 

**_A torn t-shirt, warm evening_ **

**_A dark secret you can't keep it_ **

As every person who was once a child knows, a wish upon a shooting star does not suddenly change the world. Will and Bran leave the mountain. The magic in the air dissipates.

But Bran Davies felt that magic, under the gleaming heavens. For what feels like his whole life, he's been seeking something just out of reach. The only time that missing puzzle piece ever seemed attainable was when Will was near. If he just could stand a bit closer to Will, hold onto that feeling for just a second longer, maybe he could remember what it is he's forgotten. 

"Bran?" Will is still there. Bran had fallen into such a contemplative state that he had nearly forgotten. "There's a hole in your shirt." 

"Bah!" Bran dusts himself off. "Just dirt." 

"No," Will insists. "Down your back." He touches Bran's shoulder and indeed, he touches more skin than cloth. 

"Must've caught it on a rock or a tree." Bran shrugs. "Da's gonna kill me though. Coming in after dark, clothes ripped up..."

"Grinning like an idiot," Will supplies. "Come stay with me tonight.” Bran must look dumbfounded, because Will laughs at him. “You won’t wake your father and you’ll be up early enough, I get up with the sun nowadays anyway.” 

Of course, that isn’t why Bran’s jaw is ajar, why his cheeks are flushing and his heart is fluttering. He knows what is proper and fitting, his father goes to chapel so often it’s difficult to picture him anyplace else. The church has ideas on men “lying with men” as it were, ideas that Bran disagrees with but is plagued with guilt over anyway. 

**_But in the car all the stars arrive on my ceiling_ **

**_Cigarettes you forget I've known you seven years_ **

**_And then your blood stop stutters I'm the one who always made you feel it_ **

**_And what I've done's not enough to hope you out of here_ **

The truck sputters to life, and Will snaps his seatbelt across his lap. He stares out the window and into the inky indigo night, counting golden stars in the sky. He knows their names, lists them off-hand as Bran drives. As much as he’s enjoying his visit, there is that tinge of melancholy that he can’t seem to shake. Bran notices, too, though before he has not said a word. Now though, while the night is quiet and dark and Will has not spoken in a long while. 

“Will, bachgen, what’s on your mind?” Bran asks, sparking a smoke and cranking down his window.

“Besides your nasty poison habit?” Will asks, nose crinkling. 

“No really,” Bran says, tone serious, his golden eyes barely scanning the road, boring instead through Will’s facade. “Something’s bothering you, I know it. _And you forget, I’ve known you seven years,_ cariad,” he said quietly. Will didn’t answer for a long while. At a gravely stretch, Bran pulled the truck over suddenly. He put a hand on Will’s shoulder. “I can wait all night,” he tells him. 

Will tensed, but turned toward him.   
“Do you ever feel as if you’ve forgotten something?” he asks cautiously.   
Bran snorts, eyes back on the road. “Sure I do, all the time! Usually it turns out to be my keys.”   
“No, something important. Life-changing, even. And maybe if you could just remember it, could just reach all the way back into your brain and pull it to the surface, something would change?”   
Bran’s face goes flat. “Now you’re starting to sound like Jane Drew, you know it? She’s always going on some self-discovery quest, she tells me it’s because she’s missing something of herself. Lots of yoga and retreats and whatnot.” He gets quiet. “But yeah, I’ve felt that way. I dream things, sometimes.”

“What sorts of things?” Will asks carefully, trying not to sound excited.  
“Fantasy stories. I only remember bits and pieces. Castles made of glass, sea monsters, impossible swords...Cafall.” Will winces. “It’s just stuff we played at when we were kids, is all.” He looks pale, and he’s biting his lower lip a bit too intensely.

“Sure,” Will agrees, feeling his stomach flop low in his abdomen.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Long summer, the sun lingers_ **

**_A sure stunner, in deep water_ **

_ ___________ _

Another inexplicably hot day, another day spent swimming in frigid water, and Bran and Will are clamoring up the rocks with purple lips and shaking shoulders. Unthinkingly, Bran bundles Will’s shoulders in the larger of their two towels, and Will gives him an odd look. He can’t tell gratitude from consternation in Will’s strange, old eyes, especially not now, when Will is staring at him so intently.

Then Will’s hands dart out from under the towel, quick as a flash, and he’s pushing Bran back off the rocks and into the tranquil waters below. Will’s strange, troubled look splits into a grin and he laughs as Bran stumbles back and topples into the water with an almighty splash. “Will!” he splutters, spitting a mouthful of water and trying to sound fierce. Will is laughing from above him, a clear and musical laugh that’s echoing off the hills and reminding Bran of a time not so very long ago when he, Will, and Simon Drew had “haloed into the reverberate hills” or some such nonsense. Something about that memory nudges at Bran, the way memories with Will often do, but he pushes it away, not reaching for what he knows is unreachable. It hurts too much to dig for something that never seems to be there, even more than wanting fiercely after someone who'll never be his. Instead, he laughs as well, not even forcing the sound. “I’ll get you for that, I swear I will. You just hold still!” He scrambles up the rocks, chasing a giddy and still chortling Will toward the truck. “When you least expect it,” he warns severely, unlocking the truck and starting the engine with haste. “I’m too cold to kill you now, I’ll save it til later.” 

**_But in the car all the stars arrive on my ceiling_ **

**_Cigarettes you forget I've known you seven years_ **

**_And then your blood stop stutters I'm the one who always made you feel it_ **

**_And what I've done's not enough to hope you out of here_ **

The sky is sparkling, the country summer night outdoing itself as summer approaches its peak. Will says nothing, just continues chuckling and staring out the truck windows. They drive a ways, with the heat grumbling out of the age-old vents and Will’s window open just a crack to fend off carsickness.

Bran lights a cigarette with an unthinking, automatic gesture and just as unthinkingly, Will leans across his lap to flick the disgusting thing out the window. 

“Hey!” Bran protests, but Will isn’t the least bit sorry.

“You’re not going to sit here and poison yourself in front of me, thanks. Save that nonsense for your own time.” Bran rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t light another and Will thinks to himself that it’s a start. He sits back in his seat and finds that his heart is pounding a bit. He peers at Bran out of the corner of his eye to find that Bran’s usually pale cheeks are flushed, but the tips of his ears aren’t the red of anger and embarrassment. This makes Will smile a bit, though he’s not sure why.

“What’s that look for?” Bran asks in a gruff tone, and Will is taken aback.

“Nothing, just thinking..” he trails off, and now it’s Will’s turn to go red, because he’d been thinking of how much he liked to bring a bit of color to Bran’s face, but he’s certainly not about to say that now is he? “Just thinking of how things were when we were kids.”  _ How you were when we were kids, _ Will thinks, remembering the commanding Pendragon prince that was Bran as clearly as if he were the one driving the truck, not a mortal man with a smoking problem.

“You’ve been /just thinking/ an awful lot lately,” Bran muses. “Just about every time you think I’m not paying attention, if I’m not mistaken.”

Will doesn’t respond, but he feels uneasy. They’ve had this conversation before, countless times, and he’s tried to drop hints to Bran, both about his heritage and Will’s tumultuous feelings toward him, but Bran has appeared to miss these clues until now. ‘ _ Why now?’  _ Will thinks, dismayed, for he isn’t even remotely equipt for this conversation now. He’s exhausted.

__________

**_And from your mouth coming out tell me nothing really matters_ **

**_But tonight and this ride you don't want to see it end_ **

**_But in truth you know that I can still see the blood in the water_ **

**_And what I've done's not enough to hope you out of here_ **

**___________ **

“Will…” Bran looks at him intently, not far from the commanding Pendragon look at all, but Will is staring straight forward and has clammed up all over again. “Will, honestly, you can’t say anything that’ll change how I feel about you. You’re my first friend, you’re not going to drive me off with some big revelation. I already know most everything about you.” Will cringes, and he sees in Bran’s face that he knows as well as Will does that the last bit was a lie, or at least a half truth. Bran’s brow is furrowed and he’s thinking, hard. He spins the wheel suddenly, pulling the car off onto a dusty gravel shoulder, and looks directly at Will. “Or maybe I did know,” Bran says softly, still frowning. Will’s stomach swoops. 

“You did,” Will admits, even quieter than Bran, a shake in his voice.

Bran looks at him in shock. “I did, didn’t I? I AM missing something, aren’t I? All this time I’ve sat and thought I was crazy, and you’ve let me, haven’t you? You know where it’s all gone!” It isn't an accusation, but a realization, slow but sure on Bran’s tongue. “Why haven’t you told me?” Bran asks.

“It isn’t that simple,” Will tells him, but that rings hollow in the cab of the truck, under the million stars, surrounded by the High Magic to which Bran has always truly belonged, more so than he ever belonged to Wales, or Owen Davies, or even Will. “You never asked, anyway. I didn’t even know you knew.” 

“I always knew...something,” Bran says. There’s a dawning behind his eyes that Will is afraid to see. He’s terrified that he’s done something wrong, and even more afraid that he’s getting his hopes up for nothing. 

But when Will closes his eyes Bran is forgetting and the evil they fought in their youth is still rising, driven back though it may be. And Will wishes with all his might, on every star and planet, to every power he knows-

**_What I've done's not enough to hope you out of here-_ **

Will leans towards Bran, intently.  _ It can’t be enough! _ Will thinks wildly, heart racing. Bran’s cheeks are flushed again, and he meets Will halfway, their chapped and sunburnt lips pressing into one another, suddenly, and Will thinks that maybe Bran knows, maybe he-

**_What I've done's not enough to hope you out of here-_ **

“Will…” Bran whispers, and in that one syllable a thousand implications live, bright as stars and endlessly promising. 


End file.
